


like sunlight

by molerein



Series: on children and their healing magics [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, Gen, So many flowers, baby arwen is adorable, glorfindel is a good uncle, this is pure fluff with a healthy dose of sadness be warned, thranduil & legolas are mentioned once, very much glorfindel and arwen centric, yet again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:20:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29636622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/molerein/pseuds/molerein
Summary: glorfindel knows loss. he knows its taste, its smell, the absence. arwen is ever curious. sometimes children do know best.
Relationships: Arwen Undómiel & Glorfindel, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Peredhel & Glorfindel
Series: on children and their healing magics [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2177592
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	like sunlight

they call him sunlight, and here is the greatest of ironies: he had been sunlight, once, long ago. gilded and fair was he, cheerful and strong... lord of the house of the golden flower. once upon a time, he knew only light - now, the world around him changed while he himself is the same, he knows the value of shade as well. and regardless, fire, he has learned, is not to be trifled with. there are nightmares like fractured pieces of something that was once whole piercing through his flesh, and more often than not he wakes with a start, the feeling of falling stinging his lungs.

he's still bright; he knows it. others look to him to find both cheer and leadership, and elrond, not young now but a lord in his own right, in his own home, is the only one who seems to see right through. but elrond's father (one of the many) was a star; and so he is intimately familiar with how much fuel the kindling requires. there are days when he looks upon glorfindel with old eyes, grey like mist, and for all the prowess the warrior possesses, he feels uncovered. other days elrond smiles, calls him friend, and the ache for a home that is no more diminishes. 

arda is a world familiar yet unfamiliar to him. whole kingdoms gone under, others taking their place, and the people he had known and loved are long gone. but the sun and moon shine just the same. the wind on his skin, in his hair, feels now as it had then too. kindness is still something to be found in many hearts, and the sword in his hand - _though not **his** sword_ \- is a welcome weight. and he does what he has always done best: he adaps, he survives, forces a smile until it doesn't feel forced anymore. the ache is still there, and he doubts it will ever cease to be, but there is love too, and joy.

elrohir and elladan are a wonderful distraction. always so loud as babes, making sure that no one in imladris would sleep if their parents didn't. he has spent many a night with one twin in an arm each so that elrond and celebrian may rest a while. older now, they are his self appointed shadows, and they take to the bow and sword with the same ease a duck takes to water. he watches as elladan jumps at any opportunity for trouble, dragging his twin along with him, and though the latter spends an equal amount of time tending to the plants with their father, glorfindel knows they will both grow to be fine warriors.

thranduil comes at times, his queen and little prince in tow, and those are the moments in which nothing hurts - children laughing, old friends reminiscing over memories dear and not painful. even if at times he still feels like an outsider, he is content to watch and observe. legolas braids flowers in his hair, the twins talk his ear off, and his chest feels tight and loose all the same. ecthelion would have loved all of them. would have carved himself a place among them with ease, but glorfindel was the one sent back. he is the one who has to try.

arwen is born on the night of a full moon. by all accounts, he should not be here, but elrohir asked him to come, and there is very little he would refuse the children. elrond looks beyond himself with happiness, and celebrian is radiant as ever, but his eyes are fixed on the little elfling looking back at him from her mother's arms. dark hair, as is to be expected, a tiny button nose, and eyes too bright and knowing for a being so small. she does not wail like the twins had, instead flailing little arms as if already she wants to explore the world around her. glorfindel might not have the gift of foresight, even if the valar had bestowed upon him many other gifts, but something deep inside him tells him she will see greatness. he sees her, older than now but with the same knowing eyes, a crown upon her brow, and shudders. 

"come," celebrian tells him, smiling that kind smile of hers, celeborn's smile. "you may hold her."

something in him rebels, feeling unfit of such a gift, but he does as he is bid, pausing to clasp a heavy hand over elrond's shoulder, then he's holding the babe in his arms; for once, the smile comes with little effort. she coos at him, blinks twice, and promptly falls asleep. if he cries a little, so does elrond, so he feels a little better about it, no matter how often erestor teases him for it later.

elrohir and elladan are a lot like him in many regards. they feel with their whole hearts, are quick to laugh, and face the world head on. arwen takes her first steps cautiously, as if to see if the ground is worthy of her weight. when she stars talking, her voice is quiet and sweet, the very mirror of her mother. if the twins ask him to chase them around, playing at pretend battles fought among the trees, little arwen walks with him through the garden, fingers tight around one of his, asks him to name each and every flower. he has told her many a time that either of her parents would be more suited for the task, but while silent, she is resilient and stubborn, and seems to have made an enemy out of being told no.

"what's this one?" she asks, pulling him to a halt. the sun is dimmed by clouds on this day, and the slight chill in the air has prompted him to wrap his cape around her little shoulders. it drags on the ground, gathering the first leaves of autumn, one of her hands in his own, the other holding the gilded fabric tight around her throat. he kneels next to her, brushing his fingers over the yellow petals of the flower in question. arwen waits patiently, though she twists her tiny body to look up at him, then mirrors his action, if a little clumsily.

"this, starlight, is called marigold," he tells her gently, breaking one of the stems to place the bloom behind her ear. her smile is so bright for a moment he is tempted to shut his eyes, but he smiles back at her just as brightly, taps her on the nose.

"ma-ri-gold," the child repeats dutifully, then grabs a fistful of the plants and pushes them against his chest. "looks like you."

the laugh that booms out of him is startled, fingers quick to gather the flowers before they fall to the ground, and then he's crying, a hand pressed over his eyes, pulling arwen tight to his chest.

"are you hurt? kiss it better?" she's easily concerned, climbing in his lap to pry his hand away and press her own against his cheeks, wise, wise eyes searching his own for an answer. despite his tears, he's still smiling, and so he shakes his head from side to side gently, brushes his fingers through her hair.

"no, little one, i am not hurt. some tears are not of pain or sadness. i am happy." the reassurance does not seem to satisfy her, so he leans to brush a kiss across her brow, then tickles her sides until they are both laughing so loud their ribs hurt.

that night, glorfindel plucks golden petals from his hair, and in the morning there is a vase of marigolds at the dinner table. celebrian catches his gaze from across, whispers something to her husband, but before anyone can say anything arwen is climbing into his lap, reaching pudgy fingers to steal one of the flowers, tucks it behind her ear like he had the day before. he smiles down at her and does the same.

"what's this one?" comes the question he's come to expect. it's spring again now and he is outside of the borders on a blanket. the twins are swinging from the tree celebrian is reading beneath, and elrond is talking in a hushed voice with lindir, occasionally glancing up to see that they will not fall, despite the fact that it has been many a year since they last did. he had been content to just sit and bask in the warmth before arwen came rushing to him, in her hand yet another bunch of yellow flowers.

he extends his legs so she can sit in his lap, taking the flowers from her to study them in the light. "these are buttercups," he tells her at long last, watching from the corner of his gaze as her nose scrunches up at the name.

"why?" another question he has been expecting. he hears erestor snort from nearby, but before he can start on a rant on the etymology of the word, glorfindel breaks a small flower fromt he bunch and holds it near his chin. arwen's gasp is delighted, watching the yellow cast of the bloom on his skin.

"that is because if you hold it like this and the shadow is yellow, it means that you like butter," he tells her sagely, partly to annoy erestor who as predicted huffs in annoyance and walks off to elrond, probably to complain about glorfindel filling arwen's head with nonsense.

but the elfling is completely enthralled, grabbing a flower of her own to squish against her chubby cheek. he laughs, taking a hold of her hand gently to place it properly and sure enough, the flower reflects golden on her skin as well. still, she looks entirely too serious when she asks him if she likes butter too, that all he can do is laugh even harder.

"yes," between gasps for air, the word sounds strained, but she's laughing as well now, throwing her arms around his neck to give him a hug. she picks up the flowers to run to her mother so she can repeat the experiment, then to each of the adults present. a simple joy shared, this peace after so much pain; his lungs feel heavy with warmth as he watches.

at the end of the day, all three children have braided the buttercups into his hair, clumsy and rough while he sat there in infinite patience. back in his chambers, he presses one between the pages of a book, thinks of gondolin, and smiles.

yellow flowers become their thing, elrond is quick to note. it's sunflowers and yellow roses and delicate pansies, each thrust upon him with the same question, with the same eagerness. they spend evenings in the hall of fire with books filled with botanical illustrations in their laps, arwen repeating word after word until it feels like a language of their own. black-eyed susans for get well soon. primrose for i missed you. snapdragon for mischief. he makes crowns of gerbera daisies for her to wear, she brings him bouquets of tulips, and of each he presses one into his book, kept safe and secure next to his bed.

years later, she's wearing a different crown, but she is no less radiant. soon she will walk out to meet her husband to be, but for now it is just the two of them; her eyes - those same wise eyes - are delighted when he presents her with a single marigold.

he does not stay to see it, but from those who sail after he did, he hears that the gardens of gondor bloom yellow with flowers. 


End file.
